from the railway awaiting his arrival, having kindly called to say that a few minutes' alteration had been made in the time of departure of the excursion train, and that Carver must be at the station at a certain hour.

"I am obliged to you for taking this trouble," said David, "but I am not going, and very much regret that I ever allowed the probability."

"Not going! why, my dear fellow, you will lose a very great treat and pleasure. You had better think again, for you will certainly regret it."

"If I should die before the next Sabbath, do you think I shall regret not breaking the last one I spent on earth ?" said David, with some agitation, for he was afraid of another laugh of scorn.

"Is this indeed your reason?" asked his visitor, looking with earnestness and astonishment in his face.

"Partly so," said David, colouring; "but I ought to add, that the strongest reason is the counsel of a dear mother far away, and for her sake I am resisting this temptation, which I own has been very great."

"I wish my mother's son had been as firm," said the other, feelingly. "Do you know that, for months past, I have wavered about retaining my situation, because my attendance is required on the trains on a Sunday,—the excursion trains too. But you see, my salary is good, and sometimes there is a cheerful party of us, drowning all thoughts about right and wrong, and so I have never come to a serious decision."

"But does not conscience interfere with your enjoyment sometimes."

"Yes, very often, for I was well taught when a boy. I wish something would turn up elsewhere, for I really do believe I am going wrong, but then I cannot afford to be idle."

"Don't you think," said David, gathering courage in a good cause, "that the God for whose sake, and in respect to whose authority, you give up a profitable situation, would take care of you in some way?" and he added the text his mother had cited, with its promise annexed.

"Well," said the other, "I promise you I will think

about this, and perhaps take the first opportunity to get free."

"Your reso

"I would get free at once," urged David. lution may evaporate again, and there is no need to consider whether to do right or wrong; do it while you can."

'Hush, my good friend. I must take time to make arrangements: but we will talk of this further when we meet again. Good night, and I can't help being glad you are not going;-I like you fifty times better for thinking of God's word and your mother's advice."

David felt happy and thankful;-he read his evening chapter with interest, and knelt down to thank God for guiding his thoughts towards home that night, and the bridge was a marked spot in his little history for ever. Then he fell asleep to dream that his mother's hand was upon his head in commendation and blessing, and that her beloved face was lighted up with joy and thankfulness.

On the morrow, hundreds of gleeful pleasure seekers were conveyed to the fairy scenes which invited their admiration, and few could be disappointed in the object of their expedition. The time for return arrived, again the train was filled, young men and maidens, old men and children, satiated with the Sabbath-breaker's godless enjoyments, were rushing at full speed towards home. Suddenly a shock, with results too awful and heart-sickening to describe,-and how many of that giddy throng were in eternity! The news reached the city, and spread like wild-fire through every rank. Friends hurried to the station, not to meet the living, but to claim the dead.

Carver, pale with excitement and mingled feelings, stood amidst the inquiring crowd. Horton, with his open defiance of God's authority, had received a summons he could not disobey, and lay mangled and disfigured among the dead. The railway officer, with his roused convictions, his delay to "a more convenient season," was gone for ever.

David Carver turned, shocked and distressed, towards home, scarcely able to define his feelings, to present before God his ardent thanksgivings for the influence that had controlled and counselled his own wavering way.

At last, from the contemplation of a hideous death and more terrific resurrection, his heart gradually calmed before the cross of Christ, realised the atonement for sin in the blood of the Lamb, and offered in humble faith to the service of God, the life that his mercy had so signally preserved.

The frightful account of the catastrophe reached the widow's dwelling, and for a moment a torturing fear distracted her heart. Could her boy be among those unhappy dead? Had he forgotten his promise?

Soon a letter from himself comforted her fears. 'My dear and precious mother," it began, "you have been permitted to save your son. Temptation pressed hard; I had yielded, but recoiled only for your sake. The command to honour my father and mother, remembered in time, has brought its blessings with it, and my days are prolonged in the land. Help me up higher by your prayers, my mother, for your God shall be mine, and to him shall be dedicated the spared life of your grateful son."

The object of this little narrative is not to amuse with fiction, but to warn by fact. It occurred a few years since, in connection with a scene of human agony seldom surpassed. The three young men lived and acted as described. May the fate of two be a warning to surviving Sabbath-breakers, and the example of the third a'stimulant to prayful parents and tempted wavering sons !

Tract Magazine.

THE UPPER AND NETHER SPRINGS. EVERY Christian knows two springs as sources of his supply. He gets some good at the lower fountain-the world; he gets more and better at the upper-direct from God. A parable, illustrating this thing, is given by a pious mother to her little son, in manner adapted to children, but in thought useful to readers of every age, as follows:

"There was once a man, Mark, who had two springs of water near his dwelling. And the farthest was always

full, but the near one sometimes ran dry. He could always fetch as much as he wanted from the farther one, and the water was by far the sweetest; moreover, he could, if he chose, draw out the water of the upper spring in such abundance that the dryness of the lower should not be noticed."

"Were they pretty springs?" said Mark.

"The lower one was very pretty," replied his mother; "only the sunbeams sometimes made it two warm, and sometimes an evil-disposed person would step in and muddy it, or a cloudy sky made it look very dark. Also, the flowers which grew by its side could not bear the frost. But when the sun shone just right upon it it was beautiful."

"I don't wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then," said Mark.

"No it was very natural; though if one drank too much of the water it was apt to make him sick. But the other spring-" and the widow paused, while her cheek flushed, and on her lips weeping and rejoicing were strangely mingled:

There was a great Rock," and from this the cold flowing waters' came in a bright stream that you could rather hear than see; yet was the cup always filled to the very brim if it was held there in patient trust, and no one ever knew that spring to fail; yea, in the great drought it was fullest. And the water was life-giving.

"But this man often preferred the lower spring, and would neglect the other when this was full; and if forced to seek the Rock, he was often weary of waiting for his cup to fill, and so drew it away with but a few drops. And he never learned to love the upper springs as he ought, until one year, when the very grass by the lower spring was parched, and he fled for his life to the other. And then, Mark," said his mother, looking down at him with her eyes full of tears, "when the water at last began slowly to run into the lower spring, though it was very lovely, and sweet, and pleasant, it never could be loved best again."

'Mother," said Mark, "I don't know exactly what you mean, and I do know a little too."

66

Why, my dear," said his mother, "I mean that when we lack anything this world can give, we must fetch the more from heaven."

MEMOIR OF MARY ANN STAGGS.

THE subject of the following memoir was born in Clapham, July, 1838, and died April 9th, 1855, in the same place. She was a Sunday-school scholar in the Wesleyan Association school, Bedford-row, for nearly three years. The Lord arrested her, and planted her in the church; and having witnessed her consistent walk with God, it affords me much pleasure to record her interesting biography.

Mary Ann was a scholar of the Bible-class, in which she listened with attention and interest to the religious instruction of her pious teacher, Miss Virgo; during the last two years before her death, she had been a member of our society. In the early part of her career, she expressed an ardent desire for the pardon of her sins; the silent tear stealing down her cheeks as she felt herself a guilty criminal in the sight of God, lost, utterly lost, without the intercession of her bleeding Saviour, who had so freely given himself for all, the Just for the unjust, for us men,

and our salvation.